


The Letter

by holmesian_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: “John asked me to give you this,” Molly had said. Even her words had a weight to them. He knew this was not going to be good.What did John's letter say, and how do they fix things afterwards.A fix-it of post S4E1.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 101





	1. Dear Sherlock

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. This tiny piece of paper in his hand had a weight to it which was unexplainable. It was just paper. Paper and ink. And yet, it carried the weight of the world. The point of contact between the paper and his skin burned from the heat of it.

“ _John asked me to give you this,”_ Molly had said. Even her words had a weight to them. He knew this was not going to be good.

_John._

He was pretty sure he didn’t want to read the contents of this letter. The memory of the last time he had received a note, took him back to his days at boarding school. Phrases like: _freak, no one likes you, ugly, rude, you don’t belong_. So many things that had broken him over and over until he was lost to the world of friendship. He was never going to trust another person to care for him in friendship or anything else in this life. He and Mycroft had both learned that lesson the hard way at school and had made a pact to only trust in each other and their intellect. Mycroft had been so jealous when John had come along, before they had even shown a semblance of the friendship that it had become. Even then Mycroft envied the loyal, steadfast soldier and how he was able to stand up to all Mycroft’s jibes and insults. But those times were long gone and Sherlock had to accept that.

Sherlock did not even feel how his feet had moved him to the street. He walked a block feeling the paper in his hand before hailing a cab to take him the rest of the way, so he could sit and think, and read. With trepidation, he unfolded the paper. He noted that the paper had been roughly folded, and refolded, as if John had second guessed his decision and changed his mind again and again.

_Dear Sherlock_

_I’m struggling to put this into words. I’m sure you know all too well this is not something I’m good at. But I can’t see you anymore. I can’t look at you - even writing to you now I can see your face in my mind and I’m so angry Sherlock. I’m so broken and angry. With the world, with Mary, with everything. But mostly I’m angry at you and I can’t see you right now._

_You vowed to us countless times you would ensure Mary’s safety. You swore it. And now Rosie has no mother. You’re reckless Sherlock. You have always been reckless. When it was just me and you against the rest of the world, it was fine. It was fun, even. I had nothing to live for anyway and I had been at war before. I enjoyed the battle. I ran towards it. That probably makes me reckless too but when it comes to my family, I can’t be reckless. Not my daughter - not Rosie._

_Your reckless behaviour has taken Mary away from Rosie now and I will not forgive you for that as long as I live. And no amount of anger will fix that. I know that. All I can do is ask you to respect my wishes and stay away from us now. Rosie and I need to start our life without Mary in it and I can’t have you anywhere near that._

_You were my best friend. And through all those years I know I never really told you that enough. But you know everything Sherlock Holmes. I’m sure you knew it. But now, you are nothing to me. I will not be in touch with you again. Please respect my wishes and don’t contact me._

_John_

Sherlock blinked away a slight prickle in his eyes. The writing was jagged and scrawled, written in a hurry, not John’s usual gentle curved, considered handwriting. More like what you’d expect of doctor’s handwriting. Impersonal. Clinical. No smudges of ink from tear drops. John was stoic to a tee. Sherlock knew he meant every word but something brewed under the surface of that letter.

_John’s been drinking. He is writing this out of anger and guilt. But he is right. I am to blame._


	2. MIA

“Molly?” She was the last person Sherlock expected to hear from after this morning. He had drifted around London in the cab for a while before heading to the lab at Barts. He needed work. Lots of work and science to take his mind off everything. He had been miles away in his mind palace, the ringing phone jolting him back to reality. He was surprised to see her name on the screen.

“Oh Sherlock! I’m so sorry about earlier, that was awful! I didn’t have a choice. John was right at the window and he asked me to. I couldn’t say anything. Are you alright? You know he doesn’t mean it, Sherlock. You know that. But well...I'm actually ringing to see if you have spoken to John? Since you were here, by any chance?” Molly was always so nervous when it came to Sherlock. He wished she would just get to the point, stop fussing.

“Molly…”

“He said he was going to lie down, after you left. I put Rosie to bed and I cleaned the flat and got some food ready - he really isn’t eating well Sherlock.”

“Molly I can’t talk about this now, _I can’t_. John doesn’t want me there. You said it yourself.” Even saying it aloud hurt more than he wanted to admit. Letting the words come out of his throat felt like razors cutting through on their way out to the open air.

“Sorry. I know Sherlock. But you know he’s just hurting now and he doesn’t mean that. He needs you, he really does. He will come around.” She tried to reassure him. "He just needs some time. You know how he is."

“I’ve read his letter Molly. I don’t think so. Not this time.” Sherlock let that sink in himself. He had tried to tell himself the same things Molly was saying but the more he re-read the letter and thought on it, he couldn't see a way out of it this time.

“Well in any case, _I need you_. Because he’s gone, Sherlock. He's gone.” Molly finally got to her point.

“What do you mean, _gone_?” He asked standing up from his lab stool.

“He’s nowhere in the flat. He didn’t say a word. He’s even left his phone behind. I have no idea how to reach him. I don’t know what to do!” She lamented, which was punctuated by Rosie’s cry in the background, a stab of guilt hitting Sherlock right in the chest again.

“John's probably just gone for a walk and he’ll be back soon. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Molly.” Sherlock tried to sound confident.

“No Sherlock, you left _twelve_ hours ago. He’s been missing for ten hours or more, that’s not a _stroll_. He’s gone!” She was starting to panic, he could hear it in her voice.

Sherlock was shocked. _What was John doing?_ His brain started to whir into action.

“What do you mean he’s been gone ten hours, Molly?! You’re only just telling me now?!" Sherlock jumped up and was already grabbing his coat from the bench.

“Well, I thought I would wait and he would just...come back eventually. Rosie has been grizzly so I’ve been foussed on her. I knew he needed some space after… well after you left. Shh, Shh Rosie it’s okay,” she said to the sniffling baby. Sherlock imagined her with Rosie on her hip and the phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. 

“Molly, what did he say exactly? Did you hear him leave?” Sherlock checked, trying to remember what Molly had said earlier when he wasn't really listening.

Molly started crying on the other end of the phone. “Oh Sherlock, he’s _mean_. He’s been drinking so much and he's so cold and mean at the moment. I'm too scared to say anything at all because he just bites my head off, or he sleeps. We don't speak much at all. He didn't say anything to me. He doesn’t cry. He’s like a complete empty shell. He hasn’t been like that since…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence, Sherlock knew when John would have last been like this. His heart was aching with the realisation that he was the cause of so much pain for this man. No wonder John wanted Sherlock to get out of his life. But he needed to put that aside for now and find John. Even if John didn’t want to speak to him or see him. Rosie needed to have her father back.

Sherlock grabbed his scarf, twisting it quickly around his neck and left his experiment unfinished on the bench. He had hoped that the work would distract him. Of course as much as he pretended not to be human, when it came to John, those words… well he was having a very hard time pretending he hadn’t read those words. As he leapt out of the building, the cold air stabbed at his cheeks like daggers. He usually loved the smell and the feel of the London air, but tonight, those cold daggers echoed the stabbing feeling in his gut that something might have happened to John.


	3. Mary

Jumping into a cab, he headed to the first place he could think of - Mary’s grave. Surely John would go there when Mary’s death was on his mind. His deductions were usually so accurate, that as he leapt out of the cab he expected to see the look of surprise on John’s face. But John was not there.

“John?” he called out into the night. The twilight had begun to turn, but there was still just enough light to see well, helped by some nearby lamps in the cemetery that had activated with the waning light. “John, I know you don’t want to talk to me right now but Rosie needs you. Molly is worried,” he tried, hoping John might be nearby. The sound of his voice echoed amongst the tombstones and the trees. The sting of being wrong frustrated Sherlock but the embarrassment was fortunately played out to no one but himself and some small animal that scurried off into a nearby tree, startled by the sound of his voice. Probably a squirrel. He placed his hands in his pockets to stave off some of the cold air and walked slowly closer to Mary’s grave. He hadn’t been here since the funeral. And even then he had stood back, knowing John did not want him there. There had only been John, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade at the funeral. A sorry turn out. He had remained respectfully back and avoided angering John, Mycroft stood with him, and drove him home without saying a word. The brothers both felt the weight of guilt at her death.

Mary’s grave still had flowers from the funeral – only a week before, some still thriving while others had died and remained there shrivelling against the earth. John had clearly not been here, or he would have tidied it, surely. Some stray leaves had fallen on the top of her gravestone and Sherlock waved them off as if that would help his guilt somehow.

“Mary,” Sherlock began, his voice breaking the silence once more. “I’m so sorry. You know I am. And now I don’t know where he is, Mary. And besides he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want to see me. I think I've really done it this time. I don’t know how to help him…” Sherlock felt a tickle in his throat, the beginning of tears in his eyes. Being able to speak to a stone was definitely easier than saying things to someone’s face. “He hates me, Mary. I didn’t protect you, and now he hates me.” A single tear dropped down his cheek and he watched as it dropped from his jaw bone and onto the earth below at his feet. The science of death and the giant circle of life - ashes to ashes and all that - was not lost on Sherlock. But it had been the first time in a long time that someone he actually liked had died. The first time emotion had come into play since… _Redbeard._

“I don’t know how to reach him. How do I fix this?” Sherlock put his head in his hands. His mind palace would have to guide him. Where would he go? He hadn’t returned home or Molly would have called, and he was sure John would have come here to the grave to be with Mary.

He texted Lestrade.

_Have you seen John._ _Or heard from him? SH_

_No nothing. Molly already called me._

_Keep me informed? SH_

_Sure thing Sherlock._

Where else could John possibly go? He did not want to call his brother. He couldn’t be at work at this hour, but the surgery wasn’t far from here so he decided to walk that way in case. Couldn't hurt to check - and the walk would be good to clear his head. With a bit of luck John would be there. He didn't know what he would say when he found him, but what use as a detective was he, if he couldn't find his best friend in a crisis? _Best friend._ The words stabbed at him. _Not any more._

As he walked, suddenly it occurred to Sherlock. So obvious. _Wait, was it obvious?_ Could he be at Baker Street? Had John gone looking for him? He couldn’t possibly have gone to the one place he swore to stay away from. A small flicker of hope glistened in the base of his stomach but he didn’t want to get excited. John had been very clear about how he felt. Sherlock had spent hours resisting the urge to find something to numb the pain of that letter. The realisation that not only was Mary gone, but John was too. One mistake, one second, and everything he knew was gone. Even Rosie. The thought that maybe John regretted his words, gave Sherlock just enough of a spark to push him forwards.

Suddenly his feet were moving quicker until he realised he was running towards Baker Street. 


	4. The Box

Sherlock ran up the stairs, tripping clumsily in his haste on the way up, tearing the knee of his pants. He didn’t stop to investigate, he continued up and burst through the door. When he took in the scene in front of him he let out a gasp, and froze.

_John._

John was sprawled on the floor, with his back against the couch, nearly empty bottle of scotch beside him – the good bottle of scotch. He had pushed the coffee table forward to allow his legs room to stretch out in front of him. Then Sherlock took in more of the scene before him, and icy dread worked its way around his heart when he saw the small box on the floor between John's legs.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice faltered. John didn’t look up – his eyes were also transfixed on the small box in front of him - a box Sherlock recognised very well. _His_ box which had been missing.

“John” his voice barely worked. “John, I thought…” he shook his head trying to decide the best way to stop this, “where did you find that box?”

John let out a huff, something like an amused angry laugh – usually Sherlock enjoyed that sound, it was the sound John made when Sherlock had managed to push all of his buttons. A sound that said, _you are incredibly annoying but I care about you enough not to punch you_. To Sherlock it was the sound of friendship. It usually filled him with a warm sensation of familiarity. Somehow this time, the noise didn’t bring him any sense of amusement. It was a vicious, cold sound now. Hollow, and terrifying. He didn’t know where he stood with John after the letter, and to see him here, in Baker Street was all the more confusing. But to see him in this state was worse than he could have imagined…and John had his box. _His_ box. His box that had been missing, that he tried very hard never to need. Not since John had been in his life. He certainly had never wanted to let John _know_ it was missing. It had never occurred to him that John had it all this time.

“Why, Sherlock? Do you _want_ it?” John sneered.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. His words were failing him. His heart was definitely racing in his chest. Outwardly he was calm. He was always very good at remaining calm on the outside while he was dying on the inside. He walked slowly and carefully forward so as not to startle John.

“What are you planning to do, John?” Sherlock asked, trying to take control.

“Molly call you, did she?” John’s voice was so hard. Sherlock couldn’t deal with hearing it sound so hard.

“Yes. She was worried about you. You’ve been missing for a few hours, and Rosie…”

John looked at Sherlock finally with eyes that burned through him with such anger. “Don’t you _dare_ say her name.” The fury spat out between his teeth. John’s quiet anger was much more unsettling than his over the top rage tantrums.

Sherlock swallowed hard. This was not going well. He cleared his throat and tried again, “yes, Molly thought…hoped…I might be able to find you.”

“Well. You found me. The great Sherlock Holmes does it again.” John said dramatically before turning to look back down at the box.

The smell of scotch drifted up from him which worried Sherlock. He was not in a good way.

“John” Sherlock scolded, stepping closer, slowly, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck.

“Here I am, detective. Here I am at Baker Street. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted?” He spat.

“No.” The sting of the word broke Sherlock’s heart a little bit as he realised it was the truth. He had never wanted John like this, at the expense of Mary. He had fantasised, for sure and even hoped things wouldn’t work out between them so John would return. But he had never wanted anything to happen to her, not like this.

“John, you don’t want that box.” Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to figure out what words to use. _Where had John found his stash? How long had he held on to it?_

“I don’t know, mate. Maybe… _maybe_ today I actually _do_.” John let out another huff of air and a twist of his mouth which had nothing to do with a smile.

“You’ve been drinking.” Sherlock stated.

“Good deductioning,” John pointed at him in agreement with a nod. “And what of it? I think I’m entitled. Don’t you? Huh?”

“Well. Yes, maybe. Yes. But you aren’t thinking straight. Let me take this...” he made to reach for the box and John snapped it out his hand faster than Sherlock expected. _Good army reflexes_ , he thought.

“No!” John’s eyes were frantic. “There is no way _you_ get to have this. I saved it. It’s mine now. You promised me never to touch this stuff again. When you jumped….” John paused and swallowed hard, closing his eyes at the memory of those years he suffered before going on. “When you fell, I turned the place upside down looking for it in a rage one day – before I left for good. I wanted to find every ounce of the stuff and I thought maybe I would take it all myself and join you…when it got too much.” John swallowed hard as he realised the admission he had just made and looked to Sherlock with guilt in his eyes. It had been so much easier for John when he hadn’t seen Sherlock, when he had shut him out.

But Sherlock had closed his eyes at John’s words. He wasn’t looking, he didn’t see John’s face. “John…” He sighed softly. They had never talked about this in much depth, just sort of returned to their friendship with some placating conversation and never really thrashed it out but he was shocked to think of John being driven to drugs or suicide. _Did his absence really affect John that much?_

“That’s right. You don’t want to think about the unpleasant things, do you? You just assumed I would get over it, right? But I didn’t. Not for a very long time, _Sherlock_.” He spat the words out with such hate, Sherlock took a step back. “You _destroyed_ me. You know that? And I didn’t want to live any more… without you…” John paused as the gravity of the truth sat in the air heavily between them both. The alcohol lifting all his inhibitions. Sherlock’s eyes started to sparkle with some emotion. “I couldn’t live without you, so I thought I’d take this stuff and end my suffering, or at least have a really nice trip and not feel things for a while. If it was good enough for Sherlock Holmes…” he shook his head to himself as he huffed again in frustration. “Only I couldn’t. I sat in my office at work thinking about it, for hours.”

“John…” What could he possibly say in response to this?

“Mary walked in and found me there pondering it and saved me from myself. She saved me. The way you saved me before. Only _you_ left me. You left…. “ he let the words drift in mid-air. “and now….”

“John I…it’s _okay,_ John.” Sherlock’s voice shook. He had no idea how to process this information from John or this emotion in his chest. He couldn’t take in a proper breath.

“It’s really _NOT_ ok!!” John yelled, his voice cracking and exposing the hurt more than the anger. Sherlock moved towards him and carefully opted to sit on the floor beside him, placing his hand on top of John’s hand, which was gripping the box so tightly. He was like a wild animal, likely to bolt at any second. Sherlock’s heart was breaking. He knew this feeling. He understood all too well the desire to make pain go away. The battle with that little box. He had lived this too many times before.

“You don’t want this John. Not really. You are just feeling a normal reaction to grief and shock.”

“Oh yes. John is so very, very _normal_ right? Ordinary, boring, John,” he scoffed.

“John _stop_ this. Give me the cocaine. I’ll make you some tea or pour you some more scotch but you don’t need this. _Please,_ ” he begged. “I know you can’t forgive me. I know that. And when you go home, I will leave you alone, I promise. But _please_ don’t do this. Not now. You don’t want this.”

John turned his head and stared at Sherlock with lost searching eyes and Sherlock gently pried his fingers off the box, maintaining their eye contact as he did it. John let out a heavy sigh which ended in a choked sob and he put his hand over his face. Only the shaking of his shoulders betrayed that he was beginning to cry.

“Home. Sherlock…She’s just…. _gone_. And the baby… how am I supposed to raise a baby on my own? Without her?” John managed between sobs.

“ _I’m so sorry,_ ” Sherlock whispered.

“I can’t go home, Sherlock _. I can’t…_ ”

“It’s ok, John. I know you may not want to, but you can stay here. For as long as you need...if that would help.” Sherlock said as sensibly as he could. Of course he knew he would need to get John back to Rosie, but right now, he would say whatever was needed to calm him down.

John sat quietly for the longest time before he looked up at Sherlock again. “The letter. Sherlock…I…”

“John, don’t worry about that now,” he said gently. He ignored every desire he had to hear John take back everything in that letter. But now was not the time.

John sighed again, like a weight had been released from his shoulders and unexpectedly leaned into Sherlock. Sherlock suddenly didn’t know what to do. He supposed it was customary to hug someone at this point. _Was that right?_ He put his arm around John’s shoulder and with the small gesture of contact, John collapsed into him, the release of the last week and holding all the emotion in finally getting the better of him. Sherlock’s arm tightened a little more as he felt John soften against him further while he cried. Sherlock realised he liked it - the feeling of John needing him, of holding him like this. He tilted his head to lean it against the top of John’s head and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that but he heard the sound of John’s breathing change and realised John had actually fallen asleep against him.

With his spare hand, he slid the box under the couch so John wouldn’t find it again. He thought it best to let him sleep for a bit before disturbing him. Perhaps when he woke, his head would be clearer. He had never seen John so lost before. _Is this what he was like when I_... he stopped that thought immediately. He couldn’t bear to think of that right now. He sent Lestrade and Molly quick text messages to let them know John had been located and was safely at Baker Street and then switched off his phone so as not to be disturbed.

He wondered what he would do to pass the time. _Mentally run through his catalogue of tobacco ash perhaps? It was probably due for an update now that he thought of it._ Instead, he couldn't resist the urge to stare at the top of John’s head, resting so trustingly against his chest. He had to admit a secret guilty pleasure at having John this close. Listening to the sounds of John's relaxed breathing. With his free hand, he reached up and stroked John’s hair ever so gently, just for a moment, just to see what it felt like, but careful not to wake him. John shifted a little against him and it made something stir in his chest. Such a small simple movement. He couldn’t understand how someone he had never had any physical relationship with would move him so completely – so easily. Relationships were never something he had bothered to worry about. They were so ordinary. Something people did to pass the time. Sherlock had always been busy – he made sure of that. He knew he was too difficult for anyone to spend more than a few fleeting minutes with. It was something that once or twice he and his brother had tried to talk about but had both decided that they just didn’t need.

That was until he had met a certain doctor. John had actually seemed to like him, had found him fascinating and marvelled at his tricks - even when he thought he was being his most irritating. He had to admit it was nicer having a living, breathing person instead of his skull to interact with. John had changed him. More than he realised. More than he wanted to admit. Eventually some of it had even worn off on Sherlock. He knew he treated Mrs Hudson and Molly, even Lestrade better over time – so much so that they noticed and commented. It almost annoyed Sherlock – but the fact that it was John who was responsible, he couldn’t help but feel a glint of pride. 

Their relationship was unique. Best friends who lived and breathed for each other and had been in exciting, life threatening situations together. Sherlock had been surprised how happily John had followed him into the fire, time and time again. He had been steadfast and loyal. He put up with every bad mood and messy experiment and Sherlock’s blunt cruel jibes. He had always expected John to leave at some point but somehow, despite everything, John had not. Sherlock had constantly felt guilty about letting John believe he was dead for so long. But even then, John had forgiven him and come back to their friendship, albeit with Mary in tow then.

_Mary._

Sherlock wondered if Mary would have even been in the picture if Sherlock hadn’t left, or if he had returned quicker. He guessed they would never know.


	5. Confessions

Sherlock had never known quite how to broach the fact that he had feelings for John. He had always known he had feelings. But had never wanted to quantify it, or discuss it. For years he had been content to think about John in his own head and at a safe distance, where it didn’t interfere with the work or their friendship. That had been reasonably more easy since John got married and they had been busily preparing for the baby. But now, here he was decidedly _not_ keeping his distance, with John sleeping on his chest and his right butt cheek slowly falling asleep. It had been a good hour of sitting and thinking. It was not a good thing for Sherlock to be stuck in one place…thinking.

As if John sensed his discomfort, he awoke with a bit of start.

“What? Oh…what happened? Did I fall asleep… _ohhhh my head,_ ” he groaned to himself as he came into consciousness.

Sherlock carefully edged his arm off John’s shoulder and stood up to put as much distance between them as possible before John realised the situation, so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable – and besides, he needed to move his legs and buttocks around and get rid of the pins and needles.

“I’ll get you some asprin. You polished off the better part of that bottle of scotch. Your head is going to have something to say about that,” Sherlock chided.

“Sherlock…why am I…did I fall asleep… _on you_?” John was still confused.

“Yes. It’s fine. You were clearly exhausted, John. Why don’t I make you some tea and...”

Sherlock turned around as he said it and noticed that John’s eyes had widened. Like the sudden realisation had hit.

“ _Oh my god,”_ he whispered to himself

“John, it’s ok,” Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was about to be upset about, there were so many reasons he might completely snap.

“Oh my god, Sherlock,” he shook his head, “for a second, just a second, I _forgot_.” He looked at Sherlock with such a lost look.

“It’s ok John, you’re still waking up.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about my own wife dying. _God_ ,” he moaned as he rubbed at his hair and tried to wake himself more.

“It’s a common reaction when the brain is still coming to terms with…” Sherlock began scientifically.

“Shut up. Just…don’t. And what am I even doing here?? I thought I told you I…” This was the bit Sherlock had been dreading. John having remorse for the decision to be here.  
  
“You did. Believe me, it was just as much of a surprise to me. But you’re here now. How about before you leave, I make some toast? Put something in that stomach other than pure alcohol.” Sherlock tried to be helpful, and to keep John here a little longer, selfishly.

“Do you even know how to make toast Sherlock? Or where the toaster is?” John teased out of habit.  
  
Sherlock’s reply was an annoyed glance over his shoulder back at John which said, _don’t be ridiculous!_ But John intended to watch every minute of this just for the entertainment value. As angry as he was that he had broken his own rule and come to Baker Street, he had to admit to himself that he missed this – the routine of them. 

Sherlock swept around the kitchen preparing food and moving his experiment out of the way, which gave John a moment to think to himself. He had woken with such a start and had been dreaming something rather pleasant, the details of which were sketchy but it involved Sherlock and the delicious feeling of their lips touching. It had certainly not been the first time he’d dreamt of Sherlock in that way, not that he’d ever admit to that if asked. But it was so strange to be imagining the scent and heat of his friend only to wake and be right there on top of him. He had felt intensely embarrassed, knowing how well Sherlock could read people. He certainly hoped this was one of those times he _couldn’t_ see what John was thinking. Luckily Sherlock leapt up quickly and seemed to distract himself with other things, so they didn’t have to look each other in the eye. Sherlock seemed to want nothing more than to be released from the obligation of having John leaning on him. Probably not surprising after the awful things he wrote in his letter. And Sherlock had never thought of John that way anyway. It must have been so uncomfortable for him to be stuck there on the floor waiting for John to wake up. What a mess he had created, once again.

When Sherlock had been away, John had been swallowed up with regrets and knew that his grieving was more than just that of someone who had lost a friend. He hid away for a long time in shame, fearing that people would notice. He didn’t want to hear the: “time to move on with your life” speech. He didn’t want to move on. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted to wallow in it. He wanted the: “lie in Sherlock’s bedroom and sniff his pillow, imagining he was still there” kind of wallowing. Until it became so much for him that he couldn’t function. And strangely now, although he was grieving his wife, here he had come, back to Baker Street to grieve losing Sherlock again after the letter. Only this time, he had written himself off in Sherlock’s loungeroom like and embarrassingly love-sick idiot and Sherlock had come home to it. John was incredibly ashamed.

He closed his eyes tightly, like that was going to remove the bad thoughts from his head. The sound of Sherlock cursing and dropping something brought him out of his head.

“Sherlock, you alright in there?” John called, looking towards the kitchen.

“Yes, yes John. Of course I am.” Sherlock did not sound convincing.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Nothing just a cut. I…”

“Christ Sherlock!” He let out on a sigh, as he stood up. “Only you could cut yourself making toast!” For a brief moment John smiled. It felt so nice to actually smile. He came to the kitchen, unsteady on his feet still. “Sit down, for god’s sake! Let me fix that.” John grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table in a huff. He did miss having his own doctor onsite but he still felt a bit like a petulant child, when John insisted on patching him up. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and held it against his chest as he looked at it more closely under the light, sitting in the chair beside him.

“John you’re probably not in much of a state to be helping me right now,” Sherlock tried to steady his voice, but having John hold his hand like that had set his pulse racing.

“It’s fine Sherlock. If I can patch someone up on a battle field, I can look at your little cut with a hangover,” John scolded him with a click of his tongue.

“Point taken.” Sherlock decided not to argue anymore. It was always better to just let him do what needed to be done, so he felt useful.

They sat in silence, neither one acknowledging the fact that they were doing something quite routine, despite the fact John had sworn Sherlock as his enemy, had ended up in a drunken stupor on the floor and was clearly grieving his wife. The silence as John cleaned the cut and organised the band-aid stretched out uncomfortably.

“John…” Sherlock tried.

“Don’t.”

Sherlock tried to sit quietly for a little longer, but he just couldn’t.

“But John…”

“Sherlock please don’t, just…don’t okay?” John pressed more firmly.

Sherlock watching him with great intensity as he patched up the finger in silence. Maybe if he memorised everything about John in this moment it wouldn’t be so hard to process that he might never see him again after this. Because surely, once John had done his duty and come back to his senses, he would head home to Rosie and Molly and the sentiments of the letter would be back in play.

John gave Sherlock back his hand in silence and packed up the first aid kit, standing to put it back under the sink. He turned back a little too quickly, still unsteady on his feet, just as Sherlock was also standing from the table and they collided awkwardly as John’s legs started to give way. Sherlock steadied him and John stepped out of his grip quickly, muttering apologies under his breath and avoiding eye contact, which upset Sherlock. _Surely he was allowed to at least help?_

“John can I just…” He began.

“Sherlock, I know. _I know_ you’re sorry. _I know_. I just don’t think I can hear it. You’re going to tell me to reconsider the letter, and that you’re sorry Mary died and how it wasn’t your fault and you had every intention of…”

“No, I was going to say I take full responsibility for it.” Sherlock replied simply.

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. That was not what he had expected to hear.

“You have every right to hate me, and I will respect your wishes. And if you really never want to see me again I will respect that too.”

John looked down at the ground guiltily. He didn’t know what he wanted, in truth. But he never expected Sherlock to just accept it unquestioning.

“But I hope you won’t…want that. I loved Mary too and despite all the ups and downs, I meant what I said - that I would protect you both at any cost.” Sherlock explained.

“Sherlock…”

“And now… I don’t know how to…pay for it. Losing _your_ friendship is a very high price to pay, but even that doesn’t stop this pressing on my chest, this…pain and guilt and…I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to help you and I certainly don’t know how to live with it myself. I have no idea how you are coping with it.”

John let out a loud sigh. “I cheated on her.”

“What?”

“Before she died. I…texted with another woman. We didn’t…nothing happened. But that’s beside the point isn’t it? It was an easy escape. I was cheating on her all the time in my head as well. Mostly because…well it doesn’t matter why. The point is, I was a terrible husband.” He shook his head as he let that sink in. “Sherlock, I’m not as big an idiot as you think. I know, that _of course_ it’s not really your fault. I just don’t know where to put the guilt of…this…”

“Of what?”  
  
“Of _us_. Of us and how I can’t stop chasing you case after case…and wanting to be here with you at Baker Street in the thrill of it all…and feeling suffocated in domestic life and eventually…well, it got her killed. I’m angry that Mary is gone and it’s down to me. It’s really _my_ fault. Now Rosie has no mother and I can’t…comprehend life raising a small girl on my own.” He put his head in his hands in frustration and let out a loud breath.

“I won’t be able to chase after you and your exciting life while I’m doing that. I’m angry at you because I foolishly thought you could stop the inevitable. The great Sherlock Holmes was unstoppable – even death didn’t stop _you_ – and I put my trust in it. It was a stupid thing to do. And I’m just lashing out at you when I know it’s not your fault. I know that.”

“John…”

“And on top of that, I can’t bring Rosie into this world of yours, so I have to let all of it go too and that’s almost…worse. It was the one thing that made my life exciting and I’m… terrified, Sherlock.”

“John. You could still…you don’t have to…” Sherlock didn’t know what to say to convince him not to cut their ties.

“Of course I do! What kind of father would bring their daughter into this Sherlock? Not after it also killed her mother. How could I in any kind of conscience…”

“ _Come back_ to Baker Street,” he tried to push. Maybe he could be convincing. John clearly didn't want to be away.

“Have you not paid attention to anything I’ve said?”

“Yes I have. And I still think you need to come back to Baker Street. Live here, with me. Mrs Hudson would love to have Rosie about. I could leave you behind on the dangerous cases. Lestrade would love it if I let him tag along for a change, or Molly. John, what kind of a father would you be to Rosie if you are isolated and miserable? There is so much I could teach her. Oh please, John, just think about it." He let out in a flurry of excitement and pleading. "I know you’re scared. I know you’re hurting and you’re angry and all of those things. But look…you came back to Baker Street. Even when you asked me to never speak to you again, you came back here. Why did you come back here?”

“Because I need you. God help me. I need you the same way you think you need those bloody drugs. For survival. I don’t know how to…I don’t know how to breathe without this. It’s not healthy.” And he let out a shuddering breath, sitting back down on the chair to steady his legs and let out a sob.

“John, honestly I think that’s the first time in months you’ve been yourself. Come home. Let me look after you both. I promise to be the very best. No experiments with body parts – well obviously I would clean this one up before you moved in. I would be on my very best behaviour for Rosie. Please let me?” Sherlock sat in the chair next to him again to be on the same level, in the hopes that eye contact would entice him.

“Sherlock I can’t. It’s so much more complicated than that,” he said putting his head in his hands again.

“Why is it? Why John? I can be good, I promise.” He leaned forward, pleading.

John looked up at him. Sherlock was saying all the things he wanted him to say. But he knew the emotion behind it was not there. It never was with Sherlock. How could it be? He just wanted his assistant back at his beck and call, surely. And that was never going to be enough.

“You really don’t know do you?” John hesitated.  
  
“What, John?” Sherlock was taken aback – had he missed something?  
  
“All your amazing brain and talent,” he shook his head, “you’re virtually unstoppable, but you don’t even see it.” John stood up and started to walk out of the kitchen slowly.

“See what?” Sherlock was clearly confused, he stood as well to follow, but John turned suddenly, stopping him in his tracks.

“ _Me._ This obsession, this unstoppable force I can’t shake…it’s not just the thrill of the chase, the cases, the excitement." John was frustrated and couldn't hold it in any more. "It’s _you_ , Sherlock. It’s all been about _you_. I would follow you…” He stopped to think for a second, “yeah, I’d follow you pretty much anywhere, without question. I’m in love with you. How have you never deduced that? I’ve been in love with you for…years. I just didn’t know it until you left, not really. I didn’t even think about it. I mean, even Mary knew it. We talked about it, but we both knew you never really went in for relationships, so it was irrelevant. She knew she was always second fiddle to you, but she accepted that." He stopped, waiting to see if Sherlock understood.

"I’m talking real, proper, “follow you off a cliff”…or the bloody roof of St Barts for that matter, insane love. I can’t come back to Baker Street with Rosie because it doesn’t mean what you think it means. Not to me. That letter didn’t mean what you think it means. I don’t hate you. _Of course_ I don’t, I could never hate you. Because really, I love you. But I need to get as far away from you as possible if my daughter is going to survive.” 

He stopped again to check in with Sherlock who was standing very still, eyes wide and unable to speak, staring into a void somewhere past John. John waited, to see if he would say something, anything. 

“You’re doing it again,” he said. Sherlock was never good with emotions on a large scale. He remembered asking Sherlock to be his best man and that was a much simpler task than this. The reaction was pretty much the same. Sherlock's brain had clearly gone offline.

Sherlock remained very still, unmoving. He was clearly not going to say anything until he had processed it all. John was going to just have to leave him like this.

“Well, this has been fun. Thanks for pulling me back from the ledge and looking after me last night. Sorry for intruding and all that. I...better get home to Molly. She’ll be pretty wrecked by now I think.” Not even sure Sherlock had taken any of that in, he looked Sherlock up and down, still frozen to the spot. He was clearly broken. John turned and walked back to the lounge, found his scarf and his jacket, his keys. He grabbed the scotch bottle and glass and put them up on the coffee table and pulled it back into place. Sherlock still hadn’t moved. That had really taken him by surprise.

He put his coat and scarf on, just in case Sherlock intended on saying something, anything, to give him time to process. _Well that went as well as could be expected. Exactly why I’ve never said anything before_ , John thought to himself and with that he headed to the door.

Sherlock must have snapped out of it and moved with lightening speed and agility, because suddenly his elbow was grabbed and he was swung around to be greeted by Sherlock, crowding into him almost nose to nose. John suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“You don’t… hate me?” Sherlock checked.

John couldn’t speak, not expecting to have Sherlock stand so close to him. He could only shake his head in response.

“You…you’re…” Sherlock couldn’t even finish his own sentence, but John knew what he was asking.

He nodded, and it was all the signal Sherlock needed, to grab John’s face and kiss him. It was a little awkward at first, finding a rhythm but Sherlock pulled John so close as if he could merge their bodies into one. John had never expected in his lifetime to be doing this with Sherlock. He had always been the fantasy, the unattainable, unaware, uninterested. His heart was hammering in his chest and he suddenly understood how Sherlock must feel when his brain went completely offline like that because damned if he could make anything in his brain work right now.

John pulled out of the kiss, to take in Sherlock’s face. It had a new expression he’d never seen on it before, he was absolutely mesmerised, and John could already tell he was cataloguing sensations into his mind palace for later study.

“You okay?” John asked him.

“Mmmm that was…unexpected.” Sherlock said, still with the strange expression on his face.

“Yes, not what I had planned for the day either,” John laughed a little.

“Obviously.”

“Sherlock, I…clearly I didn’t mean what I said in the letter. Not really.”

“I’m starting to get that, yes.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to just up and move in here with Rosie though.”

“Okay…”

“And I do need to go home and relieve Molly of her duty – I’ll be lucky if she comes back after yesterday.” John was not looking forward to dealing with that conversation.

“Do you want me to come along?” Sherlock offered.

“Really?” 

“Sure.” John raised his eyebrows in shock at Sherlock’s sudden and strange helpfulness. It was very out of character.

“No, I think I should go and face that music myself first. But maybe, this afternoon if you wanted to…come by…” John suggested.

“I would like that,” Sherlock said with a shyness John had only ever seen him portray during a case, when in character. It was odd to see him behave that way in earnest.

“Okay then,” he agreed, and they stood there awkwardly in the space like teenagers at the end of a date, not knowing what to do next. John nodded, thinking and Sherlock watching him intently. Without another word, he turned to open the door, but froze on the spot. Sherlock was terrified John might change his mind.

But he spun around and grabbed Sherlock’s shirt front, to pull him closer and kissed him again. This time it was less awkward, and they both sighed as that feeling sparked in them, the knowledge that there was chemistry between them, that years of wanting to do this had come to fruition and it felt so very right. 

“I just needed to do that one more time. Before I go,” John said with his eyes still closed, “just to make sure I didn’t imagine it.”

Sherlock smiled at him broadly and they both chuckled, before John opened the door.

“See you this afternoon?” John said, shaking his head at himself at how stupidly desperate it suddenly sounded.

“Mmmm yes you will,” Sherlock smiled and nodded.

And with that John was gone.

Sherlock walked over to the couch and bent down to find the little box hidden underneath. He walked to his room, opening the special drawer in his wardrobe, and beside the gun he had hidden there, he placed the little box, and then grabbed the folded letter from his pocket to place it under the box. Covering them all back up with his clothes, he closed the drawer and put them out of sight.


End file.
